


Later For Later

by unsettled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not my usual ending, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, injuries, not anything compliant, oversensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 02:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: “You,” Peter says, again, mouthing at Tony's skin. “I want you. I trust you.”This is a terrible, terrible idea, Tony knows. The worst. And yeah he's normally all for terrible ideas, but this is… no.(The one where Peter gets hit with a sex drug, and Tony is not prepared for this shit.)





	Later For Later

**Author's Note:**

> Not really anything compliant. Just picking and choosing what bits I want to use - I can't seem to let Jarvis go, for one.

_2:23 am_

When he wakes up, his mouth tastes like something died in it.

He aches all over, his head throbs, he urgently needs to pee, and there's a warm weight on his shoulder and hip. He blinks, the room dimly lit, and tilts his head down to a tangled mess of brown hair.

_Oh shit._ Right. Peter.

“Jarvis,” he whispers, “let me know if he wakes up while I'm gone,” and slowly, carefully, he eases out from under Peter's limp frame, gently lowering him onto the pillow, and heads for the bathroom. God, he feels like garbage. He pees, then rinses his mouth out once, and then again. Places his hands flat on the cold marble of the sink, and breathes. In through the nose, out through the mouth, slow, even, counting off the seconds, like he's been told, over and over.

In. Out. In. Out.

He looks up, into the mirror.

Christ.

His eyes are bloodshot, his lips dark and swollen, the bottom one split from where he'd bitten it. There are bright blooms of red and purple and teeth marks all along the left side of his neck and shoulder, dark bruising on his arms, his wrists, his hips, his jawline, hand sized. A huge, multi-pronged bruise wraps around his right side, across his ribs and abdomen and, as he turns to check, lower back._ That fucking whip thing, shit,_ that yanked him straight out of the sky. His left knee is swollen and painful, his right arm doesn't want to go higher than shoulder height, and his lower left arm throbs horribly, old and familiar. His ass aches, disgustingly sticky and tender. He works his jaw and winces as it cracks, incredibly sore.

There's a faint, smeared trickle of dried blood at his right temple. When he leans forward to examine it, his whole body protests. The hair above the smear is coarse with dried blood, and he feels gingerly at his scalp until he hits a spot that hurts, parts his hair and looks at the little, crusted cut. Probably from when that guy in purple - that idiot example of why lab safety benefits everyone - used him to break thirty-third street. Or maybe it was thirty-second. Either way. Fuck, he's going to have to pull the padding in the Mark Twelve helmet to make sure he didn't bleed all over the mechanics. He hates doing that.

“Ugh,” he says, “Jarvis, scan the upper right quadrant of the Mark Twelve helmet and see if we can't figure out what the hell broke loose and stabbed me.”

“Of course, sir. Shall I begin fabricating a replacement if it's a breakage and not a flaw?”

“A breakage is a flaw,” Tony mutters, “but yeah, go for it.” He digs in the top drawer for a minute, flipping over bottles until he finds what he wants. Pops off the lid and hesitates. These things are hell on his stomach and he already half feels like he wants to throw up. “Send someone up with some food,” he tells Jarvis, “something light that'll keep a while.” Pauses. He almost doesn't want to know. “What's the time, J?”

“It is two forty-five am, sir.” _Fucking hell._ How long was he asleep? How long had that drug lasted?

That, he really doesn't want to know right now. He rinses his mouth out once more, and drinks the next two glasses of water without pause.

He turns the shower as hot as he can stand, all the jets on high and tightly focused, and groans when they hit his skin. He doesn't even try to wash at first, just presses his hands against the tile and leans and lets the sound of the water drown out his thoughts, beat his aching muscles into putty. Watches the way that little trickle of blood expands in the water, diffusing, an exclamation point to this whole, horrible experience.

By the time he's gotten out – gotta love a never ending supply of scalding hot water – his skin is red and almost painful to touch, but some of the deep ache has faded. Everything's fogged over, but that's just fine; he doesn't really want to see himself right now. He pulls out the big first aid kit Jarvis keeps stocked – without even a single comment on its usage – and wraps his knee, carefully above and below and around around, far too practiced. Finds a heat wrap and tapes it over his shoulder, wincing as he tries and fails to do it one-handed, holding the tape in his mouth. The shower's reopened his stupid, tiny little head wound; he wipes it up with a washcloth and digs out a small, fine tipped tube of wound glue. Wipes off the magnified part of the mirror and tries to glue it shut without getting too much hair in it. He needs at least one more hand. Counts down the seconds until he can let go and hopes he hasn't managed to glue his hand to it; god, it sucked the last time he did that and just ripped the damn thing open again. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, _surely he can whip up something better than this,_ thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, “Jarvis, make a note, new projects file: better wound glue, or applicator, or faster or some shit.” Thirty- thirty something- _fuck, it's probably been long enough. Hey, look, he didn't glue his fingers._ That's something.

He snags the pill bottle on his way out. There's a big, soft robe waiting on the heated rack, and when he limps gingerly into the sitting area there's a covered tray and an ice bucket. Coconut water, juice, seltzer, smoothie – ooo, mango. The tray holds an overflowing platter of meat and cheese and crackers and like ten tiny pots of spreads. He makes little towers on crackers and eats, standing, his jaw protesting, staring out the wall of windows at the lights of the city below him.

“Jarvis,” he says. “Did I do the right thing?”

Jarvis, in his level, calm voice, tells him; “Had you allowed Mr. Parker to return home, there was a seventy-two percent chance he would not have made it there without attaching himself to someone on the street. Taking into account the people in the location of his route home at that time, there is less than a thirty-six percent chance the encounter would have resulted in a safe or healthy outcome for Mr. Parker. Had he remained here, in isolation, until the drug ran its course, there is a ninety-four percent chance he would have injured himself, and based off the newly acquired data, at least a sixty percent chance the expulsion of the drug would have been extended by an additional sixty to ninety minutes.”

Tony lets his head rest against the cold glass, lights blurring together, the statistics and possibilities and justifying data washing over him until Jarvis falls silent. “But did I do the right thing,” he says, again, quietly.

There's a long beat of silence

“In my opinion,” Jarvis says, gently, “you did.”

God, he hopes so.

He washes down two of the pills with a sip of his smoothie, grabs a tablet off the coffee table, and turns back to the bedroom.

Peter is still in the same position Tony left him, his breath coming out in little huffs, not quite snores, mouth open and drooling on the pillow. Tony shakes his head. Jesus, he looks so young. He sets his smoothie and tablet down on the nightstand, leans over and touches Peter's shoulder.

“Peter,” Tony says, quietly, “wake up.”

He doesn't stir.

Tony rolls his eyes and shakes him, just a little. “Come on, Parker, get up so I can clean this up.” Peter remains immobile, and Tony feels a flutter of fear, shakes him harder. Peter's head lolls back, hair feathering on the pillow, but he doesn't wake.

“Fuck,” Tony hisses, slides his fingers up to Peter's pulse, which feels normal, but what the hell does he know. “J,” he starts, only for Jarvis to interrupt him

“Almost all of the previous victims of this drug slept heavily after the main effects wore off. The majority slept for a time approximately double the time they were under the influence, while a small percentage slept for upwards of one and a half times as long. All victims were unresponsive for at minimum one half of the time they spent drugged, some unresponsive for up to half their sleep period. Mr. Parker should be coming out of that stage sometime in the next forty-five minutes, though he may continue to sleep for an additional three to five hours,” and Tony can breathe again.

“Ok,” he says. “Ok, that's – ok.” He stares down at the bedspread, filthy and stinking. They never really made it beyond that layer anyway, he can just replace the cover, right? “Send someone up with another one of these,” he says.

“There are additional coverlets in the door to the right of the bedroom.” Is Jarvis amused? He sounds amused.

“The one you've never opened, sir.”

Yep, definitely amused.

“Don't pick on me, Jarvis,” Tony mutters.

“I would never consider it, sir,” Jarvis replies, and that's once again totally amusement.

At least some things never change.

Tony bundles the disgusting cover off the bed and tosses it in the corner, and fetches another. Tucks it carefully around Peter and makes himself a nest of pillows next to him, cautiously slides in with his tablet, his breath hissing out sharply as he settles back. Fuck, _everything_ hurts.

Peter murmurs in his sleep and rolls closer, butting his head against Tony's hip.

Tony holds his breath and looks down at him. When Peter wakes up, he'll be alright. He'll understand – Peter is a bright, reasonable kid – fuck, that's not true, Peter is anything but reasonable – no, ok, he's smart though, he'll understand the dangers that could have happened if Tony hadn't – if Tony – shit. He'll understand, he won't be angry at Tony. He won't hate him, right? Right!

Fuck this is going to go so badly. Maybe he won't remember any of it.

_Breathe,_ he reminds himself. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. In. Out.

“Jarvis,” he says, lays the tablet flat on his lap. “Bring up the diagram of the Mark Thirteen, boots and adaptive thrusters.” Stares at the detailed holograms that project from the tablet, glowing dimmer than usual.

Gently, threads his fingers through Peter's hair, and gets to work.

*

_Yesterday, 6:40 pm_

“Hey, good job out there today, Spiderman,” Tony says, as Peter swings up to the penthouse pad. “Nice work, trapping that asshole's weapon.”

Praise is important, Tony tells himself as he steps out of the armor, tries to remember, even if it's still not a habit. Glances down at the right side of the armor, battered from top to bottom, looking a hell of a lot like he feels. “Gave us the chance to take him out without risking Clint, as much as he does love jumping off shit,” he continues. Peter's still so young, so insecure, he needs to hear praise, needs to hear someone believes in him.

Needs that, not Tony sniping at him for not being careful enough just because his heart was in his throat watching Peter get slammed into the side of that building.

Which really, hadn't been Peter's fault, just bad luck, but still. It makes Tony want to pull him from the field, keep him safe forever, and that's just not possible. He shakes his head and turns for the door, and wow, yeah, that knee's going to hurt like hell in an hour or two.

Peter hasn't said anything in reply, which isn't like him, so Tony turns around, walks backward to watch as he needles him a little. “What, my opinion no good anymo-” he breaks off, stops moving. Peter's face is pale, lips pressed tight together, hunched over. “Peter? What's wrong?”

“I-” Peter starts, then stops, swallows hard. “Uh, I think – I think I'm going to be sick,” he says, and turns away, falls down onto his hands and knees, gagging, but nothing comes up.

“Jesus, Peter, what-” Tony crouches beside him, touching the back of his hand to Peter's forehead. He's hot and clammy, not just sweaty. “What happened?” Peter just shakes his head, clutching at his stomach. “Was there something out there? Someone stick you with something or throw something on you or-”

“I don't remember,” Peter says, shivering, and Tony touches his shoulder as Peter sits back on his heels, rubbing the palms of his hands against his eyes. “Everything – everything's fuzzy,” he says, turning towards Tony and leaning. Leaning, and kind of falling.

Tony catches him, drags him in against his shoulder. “Jarvis, run through battle footage, tight focus on Spiderman, see if there's anything we missed,” and Peter sags against him, breathing harshly, more than half supported by Tony's grip. Tony looks down at him. “Faster, J.” And then, to Peter, “Peter, we've got to get up, I've got to get you inside, to medical. Come on, kid, we can do this.”

Peter shakes his head weakly against Tony's shoulder, and Jarvis says “I believe I've found the encounter,” projecting a scene on the glass of the window.

In it, Peter webs some guy's hand, and the guy just laughs and presses down on a can in his other hand, spraying a pale purple mist right in Peter's face. Peter shakes his head, waves it away, and webs his other hand, leaving him for the cops to take care of. He seems unaffected.

“Do we know what that is?” Tony asks, and then shivers a little himself as Peter noses in closer, breathing against his neck.

“Searching,” Jarvis tells him, and Tony takes those minutes to finally haul Peter to his feet, leaning hard against Tony, almost pressed up against him, face still buried in the crook of Tony's neck. “How are you doing, Peter?” he asks, quietly.

“Everything feels like it's spinning,” he says, which well, that explains the hiding in Tony's neck thing. “My spidey sense is all wrong, like everything bad is about to happen, and then gone, and then back.” He shivers, and somehow presses even closer to Tony. “I feel so cold,” he whispers.

“Jarvis, you got that?” Tony asks. “Dizziness, nausea, chills and fever, weakness, and his precog's gone haywire. Sound like anything we know?” He tugs at Peter; “Come on,” he urges, “I know you don't want to move, but we gotta get to medical, just a few steps at a time, they'll even meet us halfway.”

“Sir,” Jarvis starts, and flashes up an image in front of him.

It's one Tony recognizes instantly, and his stomach plummets.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “That sex drug guy? It's the same stuff?”

“I'm afraid so,” Jarvis says, apologetic. “It seems Mr. Parker's metabolism slowed down the onset, but now that it's taken hold, it's done so aggressively.”

“Like when you finally get Cap drunk,” Tony mutters under his breath. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and then bam, metabolism overwhelmed and blackout. With hangovers from hell. Shit shit shit. “You think this is going to be more severe for him than baseline humans?”

“It's possible,” Jarvis says, without any comforting percentages. “It's also possible that he'll process the compound faster than average. Or any combination of the two aspects. We have no data on metahumans affected by this drug yet.”

Peter shifts against him, pressing his face against Tony's neck harder, and that – that was more of a nuzzle, really. Oh, no.

“J, quick, what are his options here? We've got an antidote, right?” God, he hopes so, because if not- His thoughts break off with a start as Peter opens his mouth, presses it to Tony's skin. Oh NO.

“I'm afraid there is no antidote, sir. Given the non-toxicity of the drug, it's been given a lower priority.” OH NO.

Peter nips at Tony's skin, makes a high little noise. Rocks against Tony, and that's – yep, that's definitely an erection.

Oh fuck.

Tony brings his hand up, tangles it in Peter's hair, and tries to tug him away from Tony's neck for a moment. Peter resists, and Tony is reminded all over again that Peter is actually stronger than him. _Shit._ Fine, whatever, if it keeps him busy Tony can handle a little attention, Tony isn't going to get sidetracked by those little nips and licks and nuzzles-

“Give me some more info here, Jarvis, what are we looking at?” _Give me some good news, please._

“If a willing partner can not be found for Mr. Parker, the next best option would be isolation until the drug has run its course, which averages somewhere between six and eight hours until peak in baseline humans, with a recovery stage of about equal to double in length.”

Jesus Christ, Peter's giving him a hickey. God, he's going to be so embarrassed about this.

“Come on, Peter, come on, I need to talk to you,” Tony murmurs, “Peter, you need to snap out of this.” Reluctantly, Peter tilts his head back, his expression dazed, unfocused. “Do you have a girlfriend?” Tony asks, “Boyfriend? Casual sex buddy? Anything?” Peter shakes his head, slowly, eyes fixed to Tony's mouth.

“No one,” he says, slow, almost slurred.

“Ok,” Tony says, “ok. Peter. Peter!” Peter focuses on his eyes again, slowly. “Peter, listen to me. You have to focus on this for a minute, ok? You have options here. You can still choose what you want, Peter. No one has to do anything to you, ok? You can go into isolation for the next couple of hours and be done with this.”

“Sir,” Jarvis interjects, “you should be aware that isolation does seem to have a more negative effect on those afflicted. On average, their peak period lasted one to two hours longer than those partnered, and were more likely to sustain some form of injury while seeking satiation.”

Tony feels sick.

Peter's brow furrows. “No,” he says. “I don't want – I don't want to be alone. No.”

Tony takes a deep breath through his nose. “Alright,” he says, “pretty sure we can manage that. Jarvis says you don't really care who it is right now, but, Peter, you will after, ok? You're not all gone yet, so think, is there anyone you want? Anyone you like, or would be ok with?” Is Peter registering any of this? He's looking at Tony without really focusing on him, his pupils huge. “Peter? Natasha would help without judging you, she's seen so much worse. Or even Clint, as horrible as that is to think about, you spend plenty of time together. What about that doctor in biometrics, uh, Dr. Pen or Pell or something, you get along well. Is there anyone, Peter?”

The dazed look persists, Peter staring at him blankly, rocking against Tony's thigh. “You,” he finally says.

Tony's heart flips right over. “Wow,” he says, mouth dry, “now that's a really bad idea. You do not want me seeing you through this, Peter, believe me. There's got to be someone else.”

Peter shakes his head, pulls free of Tony's grasp and presses into him, leaning down to regain access to Tony's neck. _Why is everyone always taller than him?_ he thinks, a momentary distraction, intentionally distracting himself. “You,” Peter says, again, mouthing at Tony's skin. “I want you. I trust you.”

This is a terrible, terrible idea, Tony knows. The worst. And yeah he's normally all for terrible ideas, but this is … no. If it's him or isolation, a longer isolation is surely, surely better. “Jarvis,” his says, and hey, look at that, his voice isn't as shaky as he feels. “Have them prep an isolation room, meet us up here.”

“Noooo,” Peter moans against his neck, rocking against him. “Mr. Stark, please,” he whines, clinging, panting. “Please, I want you.”

Jesus, this is fucking awful. Tony swallows. “Jarvis,” he says again, and this time his voice is a little shaky. “What were the numbers on those injuries again?”

As Jarvis rattles them off, Tony honestly only barely registering them, just the litany of injuries and the thought '_that could be Peter hurt, that could be Peter_', Peter raises his head, nips at Tony's jaw. “Please don't leave me,” he whispers, and yanks Tony's head towards him. Presses his lips, with a low, harsh groan, to Tony's, who discovers that actually, he can't resist, can't jerk away from Peter's grip. Peter's mouth is warm, and wet, sloppy in his haste, and ok, ok, fine, isolation really isn't an option, as awful as this is going to be.

Tony pulls his head back – Peter lets him – and breathes. “Ixnay on the room, J. Send someone up to the penthouse with lube and condoms and just –“ Peter licks his neck and Tony shudders “– a, a variety pack, you know.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis replies, imperturbable. “I believe you'll find the requested items already stocked,” which is a bit of a surprise, actually, since his playboy days are pretty much in the past.

Ok. Ok, so he's doing this._ Oh shit fuck he's doing this._ Peter kisses him again, and Tony lets him, thinking. Part of his mind is screaming, how Peter will hate him forever after this, how wrong wrong wrong this is, how Peter is young and so inexperienced – he's pretty sure that 'no one' heavily implies no one, ever – how devastating this will be to the team dynamics. He shoves all of that away, as hard as he can. Later is a problem for later, right now he has to focus, has to figure out how this is going to go, how on earth he's going to get Peter through this in a way that won't hurt him, won’t leave him with nightmares or trauma or both afterward. A way he can get both of them through this in a way that won't leave him with more nightmares either, shit.

No. Ok. Focus on Peter. Focus on making this as a good an experience as possible. Focus on not violating his consent any more than absolutely necessary. Focus on everybody getting through this in one piece. Focus on – god Peter is making the most gorgeous noises, is rutting against him like he's moments from coming, hands clutching at Tony, and then, then he is, coming, shuddering and crying out and there's a wetness on his eyelashes and_ oh fuck no, please Peter don't cry._

Tony brings his free hand up, wipes at Peter's eyes as gently as he can. Peter leans into his hand, limply, panting. “It's ok, Peter,” he tells him. “It's ok. We'll get you through this, you'll be alright. I promise, ok Peter?”

Peter nips at his thumb.

Medical was an impossible goal, three flights down and across the building - even meeting them halfway has been questionable - but they're already on the penthouse level, outside and just two rooms away from the bedroom. Totally possible. Hopefully. “Peter,” he says, “if you can just walk a little, we'll have a bed. That would be better, right?” and takes a half step back.

Peter follows him, tangling his legs with Tony's as they make slow, ungainly progress towards the bedroom. He's pretty sure it's only Peter's enhanced strength and flexibility that keep them from falling over a few times, especially since Tony already feels like collapsing, but they get there, so it's fine. It's fine. “Hey, look,” he says, “a bed. How about that,” but his humor falls flat, Peter completely focused on one thing, and one thing only.

Tony sits on the edge of the bed, Peter between his legs. Peter presses forward, tangling his hands in Tony's hair, and wow, ok, that's just … right in front of him, that suit really does not leave much to the imagination. He glances up instead. “Let's slow down a little, ok? Peter?” And even though it's really not what he wants to be doing right now, he slides his hands up to the medallion in the middle of the spider suit. “Maybe we should get this off,” he suggests.

The suit loosens at his touch – after all, he made it, he always has a backdoor – and Peter shrugs it off his shoulders, makes a little frustrated noise when he has to let go of Tony to take it off his arms. It catches around his waist, but Peter's apparently out of patience, because he pushes Tony back, flat on the bad, and crawls up, kneeling over him. Tony slides back on the bed, his legs coming off the floor, twisting away from the way Peter is looming over him, god he hates that, but Peter just follows him. Lowers his head and goes back to kissing Tony with a sort of carelessness, pressing his legs and hips down against Tony, rocking into him.

Peter's barely touching him, really, just lips and hips and knees, isn't even trying to hold him down, but Tony feels like he can't breathe, like he's completely trapped. “Hey,” he says, pulling back from Peter's mouth a little, bringing his hand up to press lightly at Peter's chest.”Let's try something a little different, ok?” Anything to get him off his back, out from under Peter like this.

He brings his hands down to Peter's waist, lifts his hips with a little shove and drags the suit down further, as Peter groans, fabric stretching against and then around his cock. “Roll over,” Tony says, and Peter complies, flopping to lie on his back as Tony sits up, leans over and pulls the suit completely off. _Looks like Cap's not the only one who goes commando,_ with what might be the slightest edge of hysteria to the thought, if he's completely honest. God, Peter is just… he's an athlete, built like a gymnast, or a swimmer, narrow and trim and muscled. His skin is pale and warm and completely flawless, not a single scar on him despite the amount of damage Tony knows he's taken, just sprinklings of freckles here and here and here, Tony's fingers tracing over them. There's a bruise, already yellowing around the edges, across his shoulder and side, where he'd slammed into a wall with enough force to cripple an average person, enough that even Tony would have felt it through the suit.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter groans. Grasps at him. “Please, Mr. Stark.”

“Peter,” he says, softly, leaning on his left arm and stroking his hand over the smoothness of Peter's chest. “You're going to be like this for a while, ok? Let slow down a little so you can make it through.”

Tony doesn’t think his words are really even registering. Peter isn't home right now, just this hollow, bottomless desire, this endless need that's consuming him. Peter whines and arches upward, desperate for touch. Alright.

Tony leans in, further than before, and kisses Peter, taking control this time. Presses his thumb over Peter's nipple and presses his body against the length of Peter's and presses his tongue into Peter's mouth. Peter moans and wiggles and follows his lead beautifully. Carefully, Tony takes Peter's wrist, and slides his hand down, until their fingers are resting against the wet head of Peter's cock, incredibly hard and tight against his stomach, sticky with the remnants of his last orgasm. Tony lifts his mouth from Peter's, kisses the edge of his jaw instead. “Touch yourself for me, Peter,” he whispers, lips brushing Peter's skin, and lets Peter's wrist go, sliding his hand back up to rest on the quivering muscles of Peter's stomach, which tense a moment later when Peter grasps his cock, chin coming up as he presses his head back into the bed. He moans, loud, his eyes fluttering shut, as he strokes himself, and Tony's lips drift down Peter's neck, across his shoulder, returning the attention Peter had given him earlier.

“There you go,” he says, “just like that. That's perfect, Peter,” and Peter makes a choked, wet sound at that. Tony nips him, gently. “Go on,” he says, “make some noise. No one will hear you but me.”

And Peter, oh, Peter does. If Tony thought the noises Peter was making before were intoxicating, they're nothing compared to this. To the desperate, hungry noises coming from Peter's throat, from high in the back of his mouth, from the way he breathes, harsh and wet from his open mouth, the sounds as he swallows, dryly, and licks his lips. Tony rests his face against Peter's throat and feels the vibration of his noises, bites down at them while Peter thrashes alongside him.

His hand is still smoothing over Peter's skin, mindlessly, just feeling him, until Peter stills, suddenly, taking his hand off his cock and latching onto Tony's hand, hot and sticky. Tony glances down as Peter pants, watches as Peter tangles their fingers together and presses Tony's hand to his cock, his palm on top of Tony's, and this is exactly what Tony didn't want to happen, didn't want it to be his hand getting Peter off, like it was somehow better if Peter was the only one touching his cock. Which was stupid, stupid, hopeless, he knows. He watches, trapped, as Peter grips Tony's hand and starts guiding him, sliding their hands up the length of his cock, thumbs brushing over the wet, sensitive head, his breath hitching in time with its pulse, and back down, the contrast of soft, velvety skin and hard muscle so perfect under Tony's hand, Peter pushing, faster, tighter, his hand like iron around Tony's, thrusting up into their hands like he can't stop himself.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps, “I'm so close, don't stop, don't,” and pulls his own hand away, and that's even worse, even better, and-

“Peter, kid,” Tony says, head resting along his collarbone, “you can't keep calling me Mr. Stark while we're doing this. It's Tony.”

“Tony,” Peter says, and again, like it's dragged out of him, “_Tony._”

Tony's hand tightens at that, involuntary, and Peter jerks underneath him, fingers twisted in the bedspread, his cock twitching and coming all over his stomach and chest.

Ok, maybe insisting on Tony was a mistake, because now Tony's as hard as he's ever been, heartbeat pounding in his ears, wanting in a way that he'd told himself he wouldn't – this was about Peter, about making it good for Peter.

Peter, who was blinking at him, his face soft and relaxed for the moment, fingers uncurling from the cover and reaching towards Tony, hooking under the edge of Tony's shirt and tugging. Ah, shit, ok, he knew this would happen, it's just… a little harsher now, next to Peter's extravagant youth. Tony sits up, and ow, shit, his arm is completely numb from leaning on it so long, waking up now with agonizing pins and needles. Peter is relentless though, yanking his shirt up, up, past Tony's protesting shoulder and arm full of stabbing needles. He presses his hands to Tony's stomach, his sides, sliding up past the remnants of scar tissue, over his sternum and Tony had thought, had really thought he'd trained himself out of that flinch, but here, it re-manifests as he jerks away from Peter's hands.

Who frowns at him, confused. “How about,” Tony says, not wanting to deal with that – later, later, LATER – “we get the rest of my clothes off?” And Peter latches onto that with the same single mindedness he's shown to everything else so far, hands sliding back down to curl in the top of Tony's pants, stretchy and snug and above all, comfortable, because fuck it if he's going to have a non-breathable, constricting undersuit. Tony catches Peter's wrist just as he's about to shove them down, bunched together with his underwear, instead lifting them outward, easing them over his cock before he lets Peter yank them both the rest of the way off – only to be frustrated again by Tony's shoes.

Tony can't help but laugh at that, the growl Peter lets out as he crouches over Tony's pants, tangled around his shoes. They'd probably stretch over them, but Peter's not cognizant enough for that. Tony bends down, tugs at the laces just enough to be able to kick them down, and shivers as Peter finally shoves his pants off the rest of the way, pausing long enough to peel Tony's socks off. And then he just… looks. And Tony, ok, Tony knows he's good looking, and he's fit, and you don't make the things he makes or run around in the armor without putting on muscle, but at the same time, he's aware of how he's aged, how he's more than twice Peter's age, how his body is riddled with scars, with damage that doesn't heal and disappear like the metas. He doesn't mind being seen, but he doesn't want to be looked at, especially not like this.

“Peter,” he says, and Peter leans forward, reaches for Tony's cock.

Tony scrambles back, as fast as he can. “Wait!” he yelps, “Not that, Peter, that's not – you don't need to do that.” But Peter's still moving forward, still fixated on him, and Tony needs to redirect this, needs to find a way for Peter to use him, instead of being the one used.

He places his hand flat against Peter's chest and pushes, and Peter goes with it, lets Tony push him over, down on his back like before. He watches, bright eyed, as Tony crawls to the edge of the bed, hesitates. _Shit, this is going to be brutal on my knees._ Looks back at Peter, who's biting his lip, watching, watching, his cock already completely hard again, and stands up. Walks to the side of the bed and digs in the nightstand – yup, fully stocked, what the fuck, Jarvis – for a moment until he finds some lube – wait, not that one, there, silicone – and a handful of plain condoms. And, while he's there, he tosses a couple pillows to the end of the bed, on the floor. What the hell, it can't hurt. He'll end up aching eventually anyway, but he'll take any help he can get.

He walks back to the end of the bed and sets his collection on the floor, reaches for Peter's ankles and pulls him towards Tony, sliding on the bed. Pulls until Peter gets the idea and helps out, wiggling down the bed until his legs are hanging over the edge, spread wide. Tony takes a deep breath and then grabs a condom, ripping it open and tossing the package aside. Peter jerks when he starts to roll it on, and whines the entire time he's putting it on him. “Look,” Tony says, “I know you don't care right now, but you'll be glad the next time you want to kiss me.”

Peter just stares at him, heavy lidded.

Tony strokes him, once, the condom dry and smooth, then kneels down, carefully, pressing at the insides of Peter's thighs until his legs are spread so, so wide, and takes Peter's cock in his mouth.

It's been a while, so he'd intended to just start with the tip, but Peter jerks and cries out, thrusting upward, and Tony's mouth is suddenly far fuller, Peter's cock brushing the roof of his mouth, slim but long, and while he can smell the thick, musky scent of Peter, all he tastes is latex. He presses his tongue up against the base of Peter's cock, and Peter makes the most helpless little sound.

It's been a while, yeah, but some things you don't really forget, and Tony is pleased to note that suppressing his gag reflex is one of them. He lets Peter thrust into his mouth for a bit, using his tongue to his advantage, before he pulls off and Peter is left thrusting into the air, groaning. The condom is shiny with spit, to about halfway down, and Tony leans in, his face nestling in against the dark curls at Peter's groin, goatee prickling against the soft skin of Peter's inner thighs, feeling Peter's cock press alongside his cheek. He turns his head, slightly, and licks just above the edge of the condom, wetting it thoroughly, before he pulls away and blows on it. Peter moans, and jerks, and Tony repeats, over and over, higher and lower until his whole cock is slick.

Peter hasn't reached down yet, which is fine, because he still wants a little bit of control for now; he has another goal beyond giving Peter a truly excellent blowjob, and it’s time to approach the other. He presses his face into Peter's groin again, and fumbles open the bottle of lube, coating his fingers generously, and reaches back, setting his other hand against the edge of the bed to brace himself.

The lube is cold, the angle awkward, and his body stiff, but it gets easier as he goes, mouthing his way back up Peter's cock as he does so. He wraps his lips around the head of Peter's cock, tongue darting around the ridge of it, as he adds a second finger inside himself, listening to Peter's loud, hitching breaths. Pulls off with a pop, and tells Peter, “You can put your hands on me, if you want.”

Which is apparently exactly what Peter wanted to hear, because his hands come down, grip into Tony's hair as Tony sinks his mouth back onto Peter's cock. He lets it bump the roof of his mouth, Peter thrusting up into him, and then, tilts his head a little more, carefully, and Peter's cock slides deeper, further, down his throat.

Peter cries out, almost a sob, and thrusts, harder, faster, holding Tony's head still as he fucks into his mouth, each thrust pushing into Tony's throat, filling it, cutting off his breath for a second, two, three, as Tony adds a third finger, twists them in himself while he pants around Peter's cock, his whole chin wet with spit now, his eyes watering as his throat burns, jaw already aching, and this, this really shouldn't be something he's enjoying at all, but fuck, _fuck_, he thinks as he presses his fingers against his prostate, hard, his cock throbbing in time with Peter's thrusts, he's enjoying it way too much.

One of Peter's hands drifts down along Tony's cheek, hollowed as Tony sucks. Brushes through his beard, gently, and feels along the edge of his lips where they wrap around Peter's cock. Peter grasps at his chin, tilting it slightly, and then holds Tony there, tightly, immobile, fingers pressing in so hard Tony's sure he'll have bruises, as Peter thrusts even deeper, almost painful. Whines and groans and thrusts again, again, again, his hand tightening painfully in Tony's hair and thrusts in one more time, stiffening, holding his cock there for twice as long, longer, longer, until Tony feels lightheaded with the lack of breath, swallowing convulsively around Peter. Finally, Peter pulls back, falls away, and Tony gasps, a huge, desperate breath, and feels it move through his whole body, every muscle tensing as he comes, body clenching around his fingers, the feel of come spattering on his stomach and thighs, hot, dripping.

He lets his head fall forward, pressed to the bedspread, shuddering as he continues to gasp for breath, releases his grip on the bed and brings his free hand down, shakily, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, his chin, his beard scraping against skin, wiping off the spit before it dries on him. Peter is temporarily motionless beside him, his legs slowly relaxing, easing together, resting along Tony's bowed head. Here, in the heated air trapped between his body and the bed, between Peter's legs, the air is so thick with the smell of musk and cum and sweat Tony can barely breathe. He swallows, jaw stiffening, his throat raw, his lips swollen.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers from his ass, leaving him aching, messy. Slowly, he turns his head, raises his hands, and carefully peels the condom off Peter's cock, as Peter shudders and whimpers at each touch, tying it off and setting it out of the way, he hopes. Slowly, his body protesting, he stands, tosses the condoms and lube on the bed, and crawls up to lie next to Peter, whose eyes are still closed, his whole body flushed and lightly covered with sweat. They lie together, in silence except for the slowly quieting rasp of their breaths, drifting. Tony feels like he's melting, like he never wants to move again.

Of course, never moving again really is not an option, at all, so after his heart has stopped trying to beat out of his chest – a metaphor that is actually horribly accurate and that he now never wants to think about again – Tony drags himself up and limps his way across the room to where a mini fridge is tucked away in a cabinet, which, Jarvis being Jarvis – that is, amazing – is fully stocked. He doesn't even want to think about what his body is telling him, damage from the fight overlaid by the harm of this ordeal. Grabs a water and drowns it in one go, washing away the taste of latex, then grabs another and heads back to Peter.

Who is, distressingly, already almost hard again, in what seems like even less time than before. “Here,” Tony says, his voice rasping through his throat, “Peter, try to drink this,” and coaxes him into sitting up enough to drink at least a little. “Jarvis,” he asks, “is his recovery rate getting shorter?”

“Yes, it appears to be shortening by approximately a third the time of each previous instance.” _Shit, how long can we keep this up?_ “On a positive note,” Jarvis continues, “this indicates that the drug will in fact move through his system faster than average, and will possibly be discharged within the four hour range.”

“Oh,” Tony says. “Only three more hours? I'm going to die.”

Peter has already discarded the drink and is pressed up against him again, even more incoherent and needy, though Tony didn't think it possible. Tony pets him absently, thinking hard, feeling Peter's cock rub wetly along his leg without really registering it. Fuck, how was he going to make this work?

A sudden, sharp pain yanks him abruptly back into the present. “Ow, Christ, kid, what the hell!” he yelps – rasps, his throat aching, as Peter glares up at him, teeth easing up from where he'd bitten Tony, hard.

“Tony,” Peter says, purrs, “Tony, please.” Drags his cock against Tony's leg again, kisses the mark left by his bite softly. “Please, please, Tony, I want, I need more, don't stop.”

“I'm not going to stop, Peter,” Tony says, hurting inside and out. “It's ok, I won't leave you alone.”

“Tony,” Peter whispers, mindlessly, “Tony, Tony, please.” Wraps his hand around Tony's cock, and squeezes, gently. “You could fuck me,” he says, glazed, lets go of Tony's cock and grasps his hand instead, dragging it to his hip, around to the cleft of his ass. “Please, you could fuck me, Tony.”

It takes an enormous act of willpower for Tony not to jerk his hand away, not to jerk his entire body away from Peter. Instead, he tightens his hand on Peter's ass for a moment. “I have a better suggestion,” he says, voice uneven. Reaches over Peter and snags the lube and a couple of the condoms that have almost been swallowed by the rumpled cover, Peter arching into his body as he does so. He yanks at one of the condoms, resorting to his teeth when his hands prove too slippery, and rolls it onto Peter, Peter thrusting into his hand and whimpering the entire time. Pours a generous amount of lube into his already sticky hand and wraps it around Peter's cock, listening to him groan, deep and drawn out, as the cool slickness spreads.

Tony gives him a few strokes, and then, with a grimace, wipes his hand off on the bedspread; _We’re probably going to roll in that at some point too, yuck._ Rolls over, his back to Peter's front, and wiggles back against him. He doesn't need to try and support himself like this, to put more pressure on his knee, and he sincerely doubts Peter would be lucid enough to fuck him face to face, or at least not for very long. But this, this they can keep up for a while, if it's needed.

Peter thrusts forward, mindlessly, sliding between Tony's thighs for a moment, and Tony considers it, just letting that happen. Reaches back, instead, and curls his fingers around Peter's cock. “Like this,” he says, and sets the tip to his ass, still stretched and wet from before, brings his top leg forward a bit, bent at the knee, and pushes back, Peter taking the guidance easily. _God, it's been a long time since he's done this,_ his breath catching as Peter's cock slides in, steadily, almost too fast despite Tony's efforts, long and slim and perfect for this. Just lets himself feel for the moment, trying to stave off this looming panic in the back of his head, feel how Peter is stretching and filling him, until Peter is pressed against him, his chest warm against Tony's back, his breath hot against Tony's ear. Tony reaches up again and finds Peter's arm, drags it around him until it's holding him tight, hand splayed on Tony's stomach.

Clenches his ass, slightly, and Peter moans, tightens his arm around Tony and jerks his hips back, drives them forward. He's hampered by the fact that he doesn't seem to want to lose skin contact with Tony, but his thrusts are still forceful, short and hard, flinging his leg over Tony's lower one – ow, fuck, yeah, something's really wrong with that knee – curled up against Tony's upper leg, slotting tighter together. Peter mouths along Tony's neck and shoulders, his breath huffing out as he groans and whimpers and quietly gasps out fragments of speech, says these impossible things, filthy, glorious things;_ Tony, god, it's so good, perfect, oh please, you're so perfect. Oh god, Tony, Tony, Tony._

Tony's barely even had time to settle into a rhythm when Peter comes, slamming into Tony and shaking, holding onto him so tightly it's painful, right on top of the massive bruising from the fight. “Ease up, Peter,” he gasps, and Peter mutters and licks a long stripe up the back of Tony's neck. Tony shivers. Pulls away while Peter's still panting and pulls off the condom, tying it off again and dropping it over the side of the bed. _Please, don't let me step on it whenever we finally get up, ick._ The new ones are somewhere in front of him, where he'd tossed them, but he can't seem to find one as he runs his hand over the twisted up coverlet, _ugh, where'd they go-_

and Peter grabs him around the waist suddenly, Tony falling back against him, startled. Surely he can't be hard again already, it's only been minutes – but yep, that's the tip of Peter's cock bumping against him, sliding up the cleft of his ass. Tony wiggles, trying to put a little space between them, when Peter reaches up, pinches one of Tony's nipples at the same time that he dips his head and sinks his teeth into Tony's neck, tender and oversensitive from Peter's repeated attentions. Tony gasps, thoughts flying out of his head, fragmented against the bright burst of tight, painful, pleasure. Peter thrusts forward, sliding easily into the slickness of Tony's hole, and Tony thrusts back without thinking, heat rising again in his stomach.

Only for it to strike him, a moment later, the lost condom. “Shit, Peter, Peter, you didn't give me a chance to-“ he says, scrabbling at the sheets in front of him, searching, and Peter growls and yanks him back closer. “Peter,” he says weakly, “we should, you should let me-”

Peter lunges up on one elbow, looming over Tony, and clutches Tony's hair in his fist, jerks Tony's head around and kisses him. Bites at Tony's bottom lip and thrusts his tongue into Tony's mouth and wow, forceful, unrelenting Peter was not something Tony has ever, ever considered but Jesus, apparently he is entirely into it, his cock hardening again, slowly but insistently. Oh, fuck it, he decides, dazed. He knows he is clean, and it isn't like Peter can catch anything, with his healing factor. He'd just deal with the mess, it'd be fine, this was all going to be just-

Peter slides his hand down and palms Tony's cock, thrusting in, hard, at the same time, and Tony's brain temporarily goes offline again. “Fuck!” he shouts, jolting against the hold Peter has in his hair, stiffening against him. “Oh god, Peter, that's – you don't have to do that,” he chokes out as Peter withdraws, while Peter's hand tightens around him, slides up, and he thrusts forward. Tony moans, pinned between Peter's cock and Peter's hand and Peter's grip in his hair and Peter, Peter all over him, impossibly close to every inch of skin, sweat sticking them together. “Peter,” he says, moans, as Peter strokes him again, “fuck, Peter-”

The hand in his hair yanks harder, wrenches Tony back on his elbow, his hand clawing the bed in front of him, an awkward angle that makes his shoulder scream with pain, and Peter's kissing him, the angle all wrong, messy and wet, too much teeth and overwhelming. Tony's unable to twist out of his grip, unable to even want to at this point, panting as Peter growls and fucks in to him even harder, impossibly so, shoving their bodies forward and making every muscle in Tony's back protest. Tony brings his free arm up, presses his hand flat onto the bed and pushes back, bracing himself against the pounding Peter's giving him. Every thought has flown out of his head except the conflicting impulses of escaping the pain from the way Peter's contorted him, every injury from the fight aggravated and pushing into his mind, and the desire flooding him, desperate for release and for Peter's hand to be tighter, for his body to be closer, for him to say Tony's name again, like before-

“Peter,” he gasps, “Peter, _please,_” and both Peter's hands tighten, painfully, his body stiffening, slowing, as Tony feels the pulse of Peter's cock, the rush of come filling him up.

Peter's panting in his neck, still, and Tony shakes, so hard and so close he can barely think, trying not to thrust forward into Peter's grip, not to push back against him. This isn't about him, he tells himself, eyes closing, he isn't going to make Peter do anything, this isn't about him, this isn't_ \- oh god, Peter, please, please -_ he bites lip, as hard as he can, until he tastes copper, as the stillness continues. He’s not going to, he’s not.

He can't even tell if Peter had gotten soft at all or not, but he's hard again, still filling Tony, his hand releasing Tony's hair. Tony's head thumps back down onto the bed, dizzily, his neck protesting that abrupt move almost as much as the previous ones. Peter rocks into him, slower at first, his hand around Tony's cock a little looser, letting Tony slide through his fingers, back and forth. Tony's on the edge, so close, struggling not to fall; _not about him_, he chants, _not about him,_ shuddering. His mouth is a traitor though, whimpering “Peter, Peter, fuck, sweetheart, please-”

“Tony,” Peter breathes, low, almost inaudible. Tony shudders, curling forward as much as he can as he comes, finally, amazingly, horribly.

When his brain has rebooted, able to think again, if muddled, Peter is still thrusting into him, Tony almost entirely on his front now, completely limp, sated, achingly sore. _He'll hate himself later,_ the thought fuzzy around the edges. _Later is a problem for not now, right?_ How has Peter not come yet, or maybe he did? God, he doesn't even know, but even as he's finishing that thought, there's another surge of liquid inside him, another growl from Peter, another too tight grip on Tony's hip. Jesus, he's going to be covered in bruises, fuck.

Peter definitely doesn't get soft this time. In fact, he doesn't even stop moving, doesn't stop making sounds in Tony's ear, and Tony thinks desperately about how much more of this he can take, if Peter won't let him go.

But Peter's thrusts are jerky now, uncoordinated, like he doesn't want to but can't stop himself, and the noises he's making are harsher, wetter, almost sobs. His hands are clenching on Tony's skin; tighten, release, over and over. “Peter,” Tony says, half into the bed. “Peter, what's wrong?”

He doesn't get a response, just a shudder and a higher pitched sob, maybe Peter's head shaking against his back, but he's not sure of that. Tony takes a deep breath, as deep as he can, pinned like this, and tugs at Peter's arm, still wrapped around him. “Hey, kid,” he says, gently, “ease up, ok? Let me just-” he wiggles a little, pushes forward, and after a moment, Peter lets him, his arm pulling back as Tony rolls forward the rest of the way onto his stomach – _ow, fuck_ – and over onto his right side – seriously, OW – to look at Peter. Ugh, ick, he can already feel Peter's come leaking out of him, everything sticky and wet and cooling, god, Tony hates that, has always, always hated that part.

He shakes his head, _later for later,_ and looks at Peter. Who is – fucking hell – completely wrecked looking, flushed all over, hair a tangled nest, tear tracks down his cheeks and his eyelashes still wet, squeezed tightly closed. Tony reaches forward without even thinking about it, curves his hand against Peter's cheek and rubs his thumb along his skin. “It's ok, Peter,” he says, “it's going to be ok. What's wrong?”

Peter doesn't seem to be able to understand him, to be able to register much of anything at all. He's still painfully, ridiculous hard, his cock a bright, angry red, streaked with come and the veins standing out, so dark they're almost purple. Tony winces. “Ok,” he says, reaching down, “it's ok, we'll get you through this, it's ok”. His hand brushes Peter's cock, barely touches it, really, and Peter makes this awful, panicked sound, jerking away, landing flat on his back, cock bobbing above his abdomen.

Tony stares, startled. He'd barely touched him, what – Peter makes that sound again, as he shifts and his cock bobs down, briefly bumping his stomach, his hands coming up to clutch at his face. Oh, oh fuck. Tony looks again at Peter's cock, so swollen, too swollen, too red, the skin of it not smooth and slick after all, but almost abraded. Oh, _fuck_. He's literally fucked himself raw, and they've still ages to go.

“Shit, I'm sorry Peter, I'm sorry – J,” he says sharp. “Is there anything up here that could help him, there's gotta be something.”

“I believe there is a tube of lidocaine in the bathroom, sir,” Jarvis says. “It has both an analgesic and numbing effect, which may help to some degree.”

Tony rolls his head in the direction of the bathroom. Oh, god, it's so far away. He stares, blankly, trying to summon the energy to move, to get up.

Peter presses his face against Tony's side, smearing tears across his ribs.

Ok. Ok, he can do this. He has to do this. With a half stifled groan, Tony rolls away from Peter, pushes himself up, sitting,_ ow fuck arg,_ then throws his legs over the side of the bed.

“No,” Peter says, “no, Tony, don't go. Please don't.”

“Peter,” Tony says, twisting around to look at him, finding Peter's eyes wide, locked on his. “Peter, it's ok, I'm not going far.”

“No,” Peter insists, again, plaintive. “Don't leave me, Tony, please. Please,” a sob rising in his voice as he curls forward, latching onto Tony's wrist, right over the bruises already blooming from earlier, and clinging tightly. Tony sucks in a sharp breath and tries not to tense up. “Please,” Peter's voice breaking, “I'll be better.”

“Oh god, kid,” Tony says, horrified. “I'm not leaving you, I'm not. I just need to get something for you, ok?” But Peter's just shaking his head fiercely, his breath hitching as he tries to swallow his sobs. “Peter, Petey, please, listen to me, this will make you feel better, it's for you, you understand? Peter?”

“I'll be good,” Peter whispers, curling tighter and tighter. “Please,” and Tony feels like his heart is being wrenched out all over again.

He leans back, curls over Peter and smooths a hand over his head. “Sweetheart,” he says, trying not to cry himself, “you're being good, you're being so good, you've been perfect. You're going to be ok, Peter.” He leans in further, presses his lips against Peter's forehead, warm and salty with sweat. Tips Peter's head back and kisses him, carefully, as intently and thoroughly as he can, until Peter's uncurled, just the littlest bit, his hands tight but no longer painfully so around Tony's wrist. Tony runs his hand through Peter's hair, smoothing the bits sticking up, fluffing the flattened parts, again, and again. “I promise,” he says. “I promise, I'm going to get you through this in one piece. I promise I won't leave, Peter. But you've got to let me go get this, ok? Can you do that, sweetheart?” and when Peter starts to shake his head again, Tony stills him, “Yes, yes you can Peter, you can, I know it. Hey, aren't I always right, kid? You've got this. I promise I'll come back.” Presses his forehead against Peter's. “You can count the seconds, alright? Sixty seconds, that's all I need, you can do that, Peter.”

Peter sniffles, quietly, but his hands uncurl more, until Tony can carefully, gently, pry his wrist out of Peter's grip. “Sixty seconds,” he says. “One. Two. Three,” and turns, pushes himself off the bed. Fuck, fuck this is going to hurt – six, seven, eight – shit he should have said at least ninety seconds god the bathroom's so far away.

Behind him, Peter makes a sharp, unhappy sound, a protest, and then, his voice catching and breaking, “Tony, no, wait, Tony please, please,” his voice rising, “come back Tony, please, please,” and fuck, fuck, _fuck_, he can't stop now, he can't turn back to him, god this hurts, everything, everything hurts.

He staggers to the bathroom, clinging to the wall and the door frame and the counter to stay upright as he stops and just breathes for a second, another – twenty-seven, twenty eight, twenty nine – and Jarvis's voice says, smoothly, “It should be a yellow tube in the top right hand drawer, sir.”

Tony yanks the drawer open, carefully avoiding looking anywhere else, ignoring the giant mirror as best he can, and there it is, right where it should be. “Thank god for you, J,” he says, grabs it – forty-one, forty-two, forty-three – and turns back to Peter as fast as he can.

To the almost silent sound of Peter counting, his voice quavering, “Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four.”

“Hey,” Tony says, sitting – sitting, not falling, ok, he's sitting – down beside Peter, “what did I tell you, kid? Wasn't even gone for the full count, over-delivery on the time frame, right?” Peter latches on, shuddering. “It's ok, Peter,” Tony says. “I've got you. I promised. Here,” he adds, pushing gently on Peter's chest, rolling with him as he presses Peter back onto the bed again. “Here, let me just – this should help, this should be better, Peter.”

He squeezes out some of the cream, thick and translucent and slightly oily, scentless, into his hand, and reaches down to Peter's cock, so hard it's pulsing with Peter's heartbeat. He takes a breath, trying to steady himself, steady his hands. Brushes his hand, as lightly as he can, against Peter's cock, and Peter yelps, jerking away, wincing. _Fuck, there's no way he can do this without hurting Peter._ He needs a distraction, needs to make it quick, ripping off the band-aid. “Look at me, Peter,” he says, lowering his hand again, hovering over Peter's cock. Peter looks at Tony, his face open and vulnerable, desperate. “I'm sorry, sweetheart,” Tony whispers, and kisses him.

Slides his tongue into Peter's mouth, kissing him deeply, intimately, not letting Peter take charge, not letting him break away, lowering his hand to wrap around Peter's cock again, firm, all the way around, stroking up the full length of it as quickly as he can. Peter cries out into his mouth, thrashes beneath him, and then it's done, Tony releasing Peter's cock as soon as possible. Peter's flushed, fresh tears trickling down his temples, and Tony presses close, sets his teeth in Peter's lip and bites, hard. Hard enough to hurt, more than his hand has on Peter's cock, he hopes, and Peter jerks in surprise, a high pitched whine startled out of him.

When Tony lets him go, his lip is reddened, but not bloody, and he's panting, dazed, not cringing in pain. Tony glances down the length of Peter's body, at his cock, smeared with the glistening ointment. “Jarvis, how long until it starts working?” he asks.

“Onset of analgesic effects is approximately three to five minutes,” Jarvis says, “though it may be slightly extended due to Mr. Parker's resistance to medicines.”

His hand feels fine, normal, not even tingling; hopefully it'll help. He wipes it off on the bed, and wraps himself around Peter, head pressed into the hollow of Peter's neck, arm thrown across his chest, his leg over Peter's right and foot hooked underneath his. Listens to the rabbit fast beat of Peter's heart and shallow breathing, and waits. Thirty seconds. Sixty seconds, a hundred and twenty seconds, two forty, Peter's breathing evening out, ever so slightly. Three sixty, Peter's heart rate dropping, still too fast but calmer.

“Better?” he asks, and Peter hesitates. Nods, uncertainly, and that's a good sign, Peter able to respond to him again.

Minutes pass, slowly ticking by, Peter's breathing deepening. His cock is still as hard as before, twitching in the air, radiating a heat Tony can feel on his thigh, even from inches away. Peter squirms, huffs out a breath and reaches down, hesitantly.

Tony watches.

Slowly, Peter lets his fingers brush his cock, barely touching it. And then, again, trailing his fingers down, barely pressing in at all, his breath still catching. Drags them back up, smearing them in the ointment just enough to leave a faint trace, disturbing the slick, shiny surface. He groans.

Tony watches.

Slowly, Peter strokes himself with nothing more than the tips of his fingers, up and down the shaft of his cock, occasionally drifting up enough to brush over the head, always accompanied by a deep, full bodied moan. Twitches and jerks under Tony's grip, his fingers moving faster, stiffer, wanting more but unable to take it. Faster, sliding from the tips of his fingers to the first joint, curved around his cock so loosely, yet it still pulls a sob out of him, now thrusting up into his touch even as he tries to bring his hand away, almost palming himself.

Tony watches.

Slowly, Peter shudders, and stiffens, breathless, entire body tense and clenched, resisting against Tony's weight, who leans into Peter harder, pinning him down as best he can. Gasps out a breath, and sucks one in, harshly, mouth open wide, and jerks his hips upward, his hand drawn away and seeking Tony's arm across his chest instead, gripping onto it, fingers digging in painfully, adding to the bruises Tony's carrying, as he comes, finally, finally, wet white streaks all the way up his abdomen, almost touching Tony's arm.

Tony's body is done, worn out and unable to summon another erection, but his mind is absolutely not. He closes his eyes and tries to block out the sound of Peter's ragged breaths, the lingering twitching of Peter's body along his, tries to think of something, anything else.

“J,” he says, eyes still squeezed shut. “Where are we on the time?”

Jarvis's answer is less than reassuring. “It has been three hours and twenty one minutes since the first signs of onset, sir. Current data suggest anywhere from one to three hours more.” Adds, apologetically, “I'm afraid I am unable yet to determine if Mr. Parker's peak will be longer or shorter than average due to his metabolism.”

“Fucking hell. Jarvis,” Tony says, “if we have to make it through another three hours of this, I'm going to die. Promise me you'll put it on my headstone, 'Here lies Tony Stark, done in by a really fantastic fuck.'” Peter twitches under his arm and Tony opens his eyes. Did that earn a laugh, at least?

The sight that greets him is not, in fact, a grinning Peter, but one once more flushed, heartbeat rising, cock rising, again, again.

“Christ,” Tony says, “that was what, five, six minutes? Jarvis, is this getting worse?”

“Six minutes and twenty six seconds, sir,” Jarvis replies, which, _not actually helpful, thanks so much._ “If one looks at the previous session as a refractory period of zero, it appears Mr. Parker may have in fact peaked, and is now improving.”

God, Tony hopes so. Even so, Peter's cock is so raw by this point that even a numbing agent isn't going to get him through many more of these sub ten minute relief periods.

Peter reaches for Tony's hand, shoves it down towards his cock. Tony tries, tries so hard to be just as gentle, but Peter gasps and yanks his hand away regardless. Keeps that hand tangled in Tony's and brings his other down, shaking fingers brushing against his cock for no more than a second before he's wincing away from that as well. Peter whines, frustrated, needy, his eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking as his cock bobs, apparently buffeted by even the air around it.

“Shit, isn't the ointment still working?” Tony says, startled and worried.

“By now, it should have reached full efficacy. It is expected to remain effective for another one to two hours, in the formulation used. It seems Mr. Parker's healing factor has lowered that time frame. I'm afraid, sir,” Jarvis adds, “that applying another dose will not provide any additional relief until the effects have completely worn off.”

Which Peter obviously can't wait for. Fuck, what could he possibly do for him that would be less painful, less touching, less friction-

“J,” Tony asks, “what sort of effects am I looking at if that stuff is in my mouth, or ingested.” Peter presses his face into Tony's hand and keens, quietly, his hips still helplessly working.

“A cooling sensation and numbness of the tongue, lips, throat, and oral cavity,” Jarvis replies, “with no lasting effects. Ingestion is non toxic and had no significant outcome, though some discomfort is likely.”

“Alright then,” Tony says, “we have a plan. Peter,” he adds, “stay right there,” and pushes himself up, slides down the bed until his head is level with Peter's cock. Pushes Peter's leg up and ducks under it, letting it flop down on his arm, still bent outward, and shoves his other arm under Peter's far leg, hitching himself up on his elbows as he slides his hands up, Peter's thighs in the crook of his elbows, spreading him open, hands curved around the swell of Peter's ass, pressing into the skin.

“Deep breaths, sweetheart,” Tony says, and opens his mouth, flattens his tongue and licks up the underside of Peter's cock, as wet as he can make it.

Peter jerks, but moves very little, the way Tony has him positioned. And if nothing else, it brings home how exhausted Peter must feel, able to be pinned by Tony, finally. Gasps out a short, high pitched 'Tony', and Tony pulls back a little, looking up at him.

“Better?” he asks, and Peter nods. “Good,” Tony says, and leans back in.

He licks at Peter's cock, tongue flat and wide rather than pinpointed, pausing frequently to gather more spit, trying to keep each touch as wet and friction-less as possible. Avoids the head as much as he can, letting the pulses of precome run down and mingle with his spit, wetter, thicker. He stops and just breathes on Peter's dick at one point, Peter shuddering at the feel of hot, damp air, and then blows, gently, causing Peter to jump at the sudden sensation of cold.

Soon enough, Tony's tongue begins to feel odd, tingly and cold and thick, and then his lips. He can still feel them, mostly, but he feels clumsy now, disconnected from his body. Which is maybe a good thing, a relief at least, from having every part of his body telling him how much they hurt. The thought seems distant, fragmented.

Peter whimpers, his hips trying to jerk against Tony's hold as he winds up, closer and closer, his breaths hitching as whispers, “Tony, oh, Tony, please, please.”

Tony lowers his mouth, cheek resting against the curls of thick hair, and slowly, carefully lets his lips graze the top of Peter's cock from the side, while his tongue lies flat against the underside. Loosens his grip on Peter's hips just the smallest amount, and lets Peter thrust between his lips and tongue, short and sudden, seconds later Peter’s gasping, come speckling Tony's cheek.

Tony wipes his cheek off on the back of his hand, wipes his hand on the bed, and settles his chin against the back of his hand, flat in the hollow of Peter's hipbone. There's no point in moving, when Peter will just need a repeat in minutes, even if Tony could summon the energy to move. He watches as Peter calms, steadies, and begins to rise, a pattern that feels almost comfortably familiar by now.

This time, it's longer, ten, maybe fifteen minutes, getting better. This time, he licks across the head of Peter's cock, and slowly, cautiously, takes Peter into his mouth, lips carefully wrapped around his teeth, as gentle as he can manage, his tongue flicking lightly against the vein of Peter's cock, against the ridge of his head, textured to smooth and back again, a difference he can barely gauge better than the amount of pressure he's applying, his whole mouth now tingling and thick. Peter whines, again, soft this time, and his whispers are mere breaths, repeating Tony's name over and over and over, breaking off in the middle of one repetition to gasp and come, thick and messy and almost tasteless, the numbness dulling everything in Tony's mouth. Tony swallows, his throat cool now too, thick like it's closing off, unprotesting despite how raw he knows it really is.

He merely tips his head over this time, resting on Peter's thigh. Peter tilts his head down, catches Tony's eyes before he's even caught his breath, gaze heavily lidded, his mouth open and red, wet. They breathe, looking at each other, Tony beginning to drift, distant, his whole body barely feeling the sheets beneath him any more, almost floating. He should find this alarming, the thought forming slowly in his mind, everything quiet and soft for once.

Their breathing has synced, he notices.

Peter has gone limp, completely, splayed out, Tony's arms the only thing keeping his legs up, Peter's arms awkwardly spread out on the sheets. He makes an effort to move his head, like he wants to roll it in the other direction, but gives in after a moment, the muscles of his neck going slack, his gaze soft and distant on Tony. His breathing remains steady, slow, as Tony turns his head, realizing Peter's cock is hardening again.

Slowly, like everything else right now, and he watches it, detached, as it rises, inch by inch, hardening and darkening, the veins beginning to stand out, the skin tightening and pulling back, clear, sticky liquid beading at the tip of Peter's cock, breaking surface tension and dripping down, sliding the length of his cock to disappear into the dark hair of his groin. Tony leans in, licks at it.

Peter sighs, lax, and Tony raises himself up on his elbows, again, takes Peter in his mouth and just… holds him there, feels the heavy pulse of him on his tongue, oddly weightless and faintly salty, as Tony realizes the numbness must be beginning to wear off. Holds him there, suspended, Peter immobile aside from the rise and fall of his chest, the beating of his heart. Slowly, Tony begins to move, his whole mouth loose as he slides it up and down on Peter's cock, letting the head press against the roof of his mouth, muted, pulling off entirely, just breathing and watching until the next drops of precome well up, slowly sliding Peter back into his mouth.

Peter's almost silent, aside from the sound of his breathing, as though he can't even find the energy to even make a noise. Gradually, his hips begin to shift, the tiniest, incremental movements, steady and unhurried, the pace unchanging even as his breathing deepens. The numbness in Tony's mouth turns to tingling, like a limb asleep reawakening, then a cold, sharp feeling, as he continues to work Peter's cock, leisurely. The feeling of unreality heightens, settling in until nothing about this seems real, some night terror brought to life and temporarily tamed. The coolness fades, Peter's hips shift higher, and lower, but no faster, and Tony begins to taste Peter, now, salty and bitter and musky, metallic, grounding him, familiar, like the taste of blood but softer, like the aftertaste of his awful chlorophyll treatments, like the first time he shoved a new element into his chest, the hint of coconut never really gone, even now.

Peter shivers, and his breath stops for a moment, the only sign he's come, apart from the rush of thick liquid in Tony's mouth, a suddenly overwhelmingly strong taste, coating every bit of his mouth, a drop or two warm at the corner of his lips, sliding down his chin. He stills, holding Peter in his mouth, motionless aside from his throat as he swallows, still numb enough that the pain is a distant niggling in his mind. Waits, until Peter's cock has softened completely in his mouth, till the only thing keeping it in is his lips around it, and lets it slide out, falling wetly against Peter's thigh.

“J,” he says, breaths out, unable to say more.

“Time elapsed between orgasm and erection was almost thirty minutes this time,” Jarvis says, very, very quietly. Tony settles in, waits.

Waits.

Waits.

“Sir,” Jarvis says, jerking him out of the daze he'd fallen into. “Mr. Parker has fallen asleep. It appears the peak is over.”

“Oh,” Tony says, his mind blank, empty except for the overwhelming desire to sleep forever. “That's good. That's … good.” He blinks, and everything seems to stretch around him, spinning.

Peter makes a little stifled noise, a huff of breath, and suddenly Tony wants to be closer to him almost as much as he wants to fall back and sleep. Slowly, he tugs at Peter's hips, slides him down and Tony up until they're nestled together, the sound of Peter's even, quiet breathing a comfort to him as he closes his eyes.

*

_5:14 am_

“No, strip out the wiring, this isn't working at all. Ok, let's start over with the booster, pull up the schematics from Mark Twelve and overlay-”

There's a tiny little snort down by his side, different from the quiet noises Peter's been making for the last hour. Tony glances down as Peter lets out a little grumble, flops his head over and sighs.

Tony feels like the warmth has gone out of his body, leaden and sick.

Peter blinks, barely, and then again, his eyes unfocused, groggy. Slowly, slowly, he focuses on Tony. A tiny furrow appears between his eyebrows.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tony says.

“Huh?” Peter says, blankly, and then, suddenly, his eyes widen and Tony can see everything falling back into place, Peter stiffening, mouth dropping as he lets out a moan of horror.

_Well, he definitely remembers_. Tony feels twitchy, skittish.

Peter sits bolt upright, gaping, and then seems to realize again that's he's naked and clutches the bedspread up around his neck. “Nooooo,” he groans, “oh my god I can't believe oh my god oh my GOD-” his other hand coming up to spread over his face, hiding.

“You-” he says, incoherently, “and I! we- oh my GOD!”

“Peter,” Tony says, uncertainly.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter babbles over him, the lack of Tony's name like a splash of cold water, “I'm so sorry. Oh my god, I'm so, so, so sorry! I can’t believe – I'm SO sorry!”

“Whoa, whoa whoa whoa,” Tony says, lurching up, tablet sliding from his lap, “hey, Peter, no, no, this is not your fault! Peter, you have nothing to be sorry for, it's alright, it is.” Peter's shaking his head, loosely, like he can't stop, and Tony reaches forward, not sure if this is ok, and puts his hand on Peter's shoulder.

Peter jumps, and looks at him, his eyes huge and wet. “I'm so sorry,” he repeats, “Mr. Stark, you must be so disappointed, so angry-”

“Oh my god, kid,” Tony interrupts, as fast as he can. “Of course I'm not angry or disappointed, are you kidding? Peter, this was. Not. Your. Fault. It's ok. I promise, it's ok.” Peter just stares at him, mutely. Tony sighs. “Look, why don't you just … take a shower, get cleaned up, and then we'll talk about this, ok? Yeah?” And Peter nods, tiny, repeatedly, but doesn't move.

“Come on,” Tony says, “go on. You'll feel better after.” Peter moves, finally, sliding off the bed almost in a daze, letting go of the blanket and walking across the room. Tony looks away. Looks up before Peter closes the door and calls, “There's food out front when you're done,” but he's not sure Peter heard him.

The bathroom door closes, and Tony hesitates for a minute, staring at it. It's a gross invasion of privacy, but if Peter's in there freaking out, if Peter does something stupid or even just falls or passes out or – “Jarvis, pull up the mirror camera,” he says, and fumbles for the tablet.

Peter's pacing, back and forth, back and forth, staring at the ground, his hands clutched in his hair, keeping up a low mutter of “oh my god, oh my god.” Every now and then he stops, freezes, stares into the distance or slaps his hands over his mouth, and exclaims “OH MY GOD, FUCK,” almost at a shout, then glances nervously at the door. Tony winces.

Finally Peter stops, braces himself against the counter and stares at himself in the mirror. “Ok, Parker,” he says, tells himself. “Ok, you can deal with this. You can totally deal with this. It's … it's fine. It's fine! Tony helped you out and he's not angry even though you asked – oh my god oh my god I was begging like – no ok it's fine, he's not angry, you're fine, everything's … fine. Going to be fine. Just, just don't think about it. Don't think about begging, or coming in your pants and embarrassing yourself, or Tony fucking Stark sucking your cock, oh my god –“ his voice rising almost to a shriek.

Tony absolutely does not know how to react, but he should not be watching this.

“Just, take a shower, Parker,” Peter finally says, after several minutes of staring at himself wide eyed in the mirror. Ok, he's just going to make sure Peter doesn't fall, Tony tells himself, even though Jarvis is perfectly capable of alerting him. Peter turns on the shower, steps in without adjusting anything, and yelps. Tony startles upright, only to sink back down as Peter says “Oh my god this is amazing!”

Tony swipes away the camera feed. Stares, blankly, into the room. “Jarvis,” he says, “alert me if Peter manages to harm himself in some stupid way. And make sure he knows there's food, he's probably starving with that metabolism.”

He pulls back up the schematic, but honestly, he's just staring at it.

After what feels like forever, the bathroom door opens, and Peter appears, flushed, hair still damp, wrapped up in another robe. “Uh,” he says. “Jarvis said there's food, I'm just going to-” and points over his shoulder, awkward as Peter does best. Tony nods and waves him off, and Peter scurries through the door.

Tony allows himself thirty seconds of absolute panic. This is going to go so poorly.

After another eternity, Peter wanders back in, looking a little more relaxed, still munching on a cracker concoction. “These are really good,” he says, carefully casual.

“We can get something else sent up,” Tony says, “if you're still hungry.”

Peter waves it off. “No, no, I'm fine,” even though Tony knows that has to be a lie, there is nothing fine about anything right now.

“How are you feeling?” Tony asks, “how's your shoulder?”

“My shoulder?” Peter asks, confused, then turns his head – and then his entire body, while Tony internally groans – shoving his gown off his shoulder and trying to look at it. “Uh, it's fine?” Peter says.

Tony shakes his head. “Oh, to have a healing factor,” he says, and when Peter looks at him, says, “They rammed you into a building, Peter.”

Peter blinks, then frowns, “Yeah,” he says, apparently finally remembering. “That really hurt! Oh, no, and it shredded my suit.”

“Don't worry about it,” Tony says. “You were about due for an upgrade anyway.”

Peter's expression lightens for a moment, and then, “Wait, are you ok, Mr. Stark? They smashed you into the street! More than once!”

Tony starts to shrug, then stops when his shoulder protests, strongly. “About average, kid. Just getting too old for this sort of combat.”

Peter looks a little worried, and mutters, “You're not that old,” almost indignantly.

Tony laughs, a little. “Thanks, Peter.”

There's silence, silence, Tony really needs to be the adult here, needs to bring it up, and then Peter says, “So, um...”

“I'm not angry,” Tony says, as emphatically as he can. “I'm not even the tiniest bit angry – I don't know why you'd think that! If anyone should be angry here it's you. I'm sorry, Peter. This shouldn't have happened to you.”

Peter's looking at him like he's not speaking english, so Tony tries again.

“We've run into this particular drug before, so we should have had an antidote all ready to go. You shouldn't have had to go through this, and – I don't know, maybe I should have found someone else, or put you in isolation, but the numbers didn't look great and I was worried and I just, I wasn't thinking that clearly-”

Peter shakes his head, interrupts him. “You tried to give me options,” he says, slowly. “I'm pretty sure I remember that. You kept asking if there was someone I wanted you to get and I was so … annoyed? Annoyed that you wouldn't, when I knew you were who I wanted, you were safe-” he breaks off, blushing fiercely. “Er...”

“Um,” Tony says, reeling. “Thanks? A shockingly bad character judgment on your part, but hey.”

Peter comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed with his leg curled up under him. “That's not true at all,” he says, fiercely. “I remember. You took care of me. You kept me safe. I'm not angry,” he adds, while Tony is still mentally trying to track the turn this conversation has taken. “I mean … it sounds like the options were pretty miserable – Jarvis ran me some numbers – and well, I'm … super embarrassed and sorry and freaking out a little – a lot – but I'm not miserable and it wasn't, ah, miserable, so … thank you? I'm glad you made it not the worst thing that could have happened to me.”

Tony groans and covers his face with his hands. “Jesus, Peter, you should not be thanking me for this.”

“Well, I am,” Peter says, shortly, his arms crossed across his chest. “So, tough.”

Tony can't help it, the snort of laughter that escapes him at that. Peter smiles back, a little uncertainty. “Alright,” Tony says, admitting defeat. “Alright! It wasn't either of our faults, nobody's angry, and nothing was awful. Have it your way!”

Peter actually smiles at that, and curls his other foot underneath him, sitting cross legged. “Um,” he says. “This probably going to sound really weird, but there is one thing,” and he blushes, bright red, looking away from Tony. “There were … a lot of things we did, a lot of new things, but you didn't …” he shifts his eyes up, not moving his head. “You didn't fuck me.”

Tony jerks back against the headboard. “Fucking hell, Peter,” he says, startled, suddenly angry, and Peter startles as well. “You were drugged. You couldn't consent to anything. It's bad enough what I did, but you couldn't consent to something like that. I tried – I tried to stick with things you could do to me, ok? Because I could consent and could let you use me to get through that fucking drug.”

“Oh,” says Peter, very small, looking at his hands. “I didn't think of it like that.” There's silence, Tony trying to calm down, Peter thinking. “So that's why you let me-” Peter starts, and then stops, frozen, his eyes suddenly wide.

“Oh my god,” he says suddenly, voice rising in pitch until it cracks. “I fucked Tony Stark!”

And Tony, still panicking a little himself, has a complete failure of filters and blurts “Oh _yeah_ you did.”

They stare at each other, horrified for a second, and then Tony says, barely breathing, “Too soon?” And Peter just …

Peter snorts out a laugh, and then another, claps his hand over his mouth and tries to hold it back while his eyes crinkle and Tony smiles at him, relieved, amused, and Peter collapses, howls with laughter, eyes watering, holding his sides and he laughs and laughs and laughs, tipped over on his side. Tony grins at him, letting him laugh himself out, recognizing that release of tension, uncontrollable and overwhelming. Finally, Peter lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, his breathing calm again.

“We're ok, right?” he asks. “This isn't going to fuck everything up, right?”

“Kid,” Tony says, “if I couldn't get along with anyone I'd ever had sex with, I wouldn't have a business.”

Peter looks at him, that crooked, trying to hide itself smile. “You're horrible,” he says. “Can I come up there?” and gestures to the space beside Tony.

“Sure,” Tony says, and Peter crawls up, huddles in against his side and lifts Tony's arm out of the way to get more comfortable. Tony snorts, and “What am I supposed to do with this now,” he says, waving his arm.

“I don't know,” Peter says, “not my problem!” then grabs it and brings it down to rest in his hair. Tony stares down at him for a moment, watches Peter's eyes close.

He feels light, his stomach still flipping over and over, but nothing else hurts quite as much. “Bring those diagrams back up, J,” he says.

Peter's eyes open, watching Tony spin and poke and tweak things, discarding another set of options with a frustrated sound. “Wait,” Peter says, “why don't you just use that weird non-newtonian membrane you've got?”

“Wouldn't work,” Tony says, “at the forces I'm dealing with here it'd just break down, and then get into the mechanics and break everything down.”

“No,” Peter insists, “look, like in my suit-”

“Yeah but your suit never gets that much pressure, has totally different needs, while mine is having to protect my far more delicate self-”

“Yeah but look – Jarvis, throw my suit over this – see, if you take the film around it and scale it up by like, a factor of five percent and then get rid of this open portion here, they should cushion each other and then in turn you and won't burst because of equalization effect. And even if they somehow do, blocking off that panel means it can't go anywhere, you'll just get goo on yourself, not inside the breakable bits.”

Tony spins it, looking for flaws. “Huh,” he says. “That actually might work. Good eye, kid.”

Peter smiles, bright and wide, and Tony thinks, with a certainty that he's seldom felt, that this really will work out ok.

  
*

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ever so much to the_me09 and clementinestarling for betaing and cheerleading! The extra support after so long away was deeply appreciated.


End file.
